


I Always Knew I'd Die In The Snow

by Cowboy_Sneep_Dip



Series: Feralgrid [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/F, Harm to Animals, Hurt No Comfort, No Byleth, Slow Burn, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, vaguely crimson-flower-shaped, yeesh sorry this one's pretty rough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23022679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip/pseuds/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip
Summary: Wyvern Moon - 1181The flames of war have engulfed Fódlan at last. The whole continent seems to brace itself, holding its breath as the Adrestian Empire and Holy Kingdom of Faerghus rally their forces against one another. In the shadow of the ruins of Garreg Mach, Prince Dimitri leads his former classmates on an endless hunt, sating his thirst for revenge the only way he knows, while his companions grow increasingly weary and worried. Amidst the chaos, Ingrid takes it upon herself to do what the delusional prince will not, and sets off on a quest to ready the border for war.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Series: Feralgrid [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654669
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prologue of sorts to a multimedia collaboration with @jireemblem on twitter!   
> Check out their very excellent art here - https://twitter.com/i/events/1210313990691344389

The wind is dry and sour. 

It smells like fire and ash, and sweeps across the barren plains, rustling the burned-out trees and the yellowed grass. It’s warm on Ingrid’s face, the small comfort offset by the distant, muffled sounds of battle. She sighs and rests against her pegasus, waiting for the pain in her leg to subside. 

“Ingrid!” comes a curt, impatient voice. 

“Ah,” Ingrid lifts her head and forces a smile. Her lips are chapped and she can taste copper when she runs. “Felix, did the report from Dimitri come in?” 

“Not yet,” Felix says, approaching, a bag slung over his shoulder. “Sylvain told me to bring you this,” he says, kneeling before Ingrid and taking his bag off. He pulls out a small satchel of dried jerky and passes it to Ingrid’s waiting, shaking hands. It’s hard to open the satchel with her gloves on, and her wrist bone clicks as she pulls the segmented metal glove free. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“Mm,” Felix says noncommittally. “Have you rested?”

Ingrid shakes her head.

None of them rest easy when the king is out. No one knows where he is, either, and that makes Ingrid nervous. She taps her heavy boots anxiously against the ground.

“Stop doing that,” Felix says, irritation plain in his voice.

“I’m worried about him.”

“The boar can take care of himself.”

Ingrid finishes chewing a piece of meat, passes the empty satchel back to Felix, and pulls her gloves back on. “Any word from Ashe?” 

Felix shakes his head. 

The sun sinks lower in the sky, lighting the hills of southern Faerghus with a deep, fiery orange. As shadows cast from the mountain stretch across the land, it’s easier to see the flashes of magic in the dark. Blasts of light like distant lightning, too far off to hear the thunder and the tumult. 

Ingrid rests her arms on her legs and watches Sylvain pile wood on the fire. None of them speak. Dimitri still hasn’t returned.

“I think we should go after him,” Ingrid says at last, breaking the silence. 

“And get killed, too?” Felix replies. 

“He’s not dead,” Sylvain and Ingrid both protest. 

“Captured, then,” Felix waves his hand. “The boar can’t even take care of his damn self, why would he care about any of us?” 

“Because he’s our leader,” Annette says quietly from the back of their makeshift camp. She and Mercedes are sitting cross-legged in the grass, fixing rudimentary first-aid kits from their supplies. “He wouldn’t abandon us.”

“He doesn’t give a shit about any of us,” Felix pushes himself up. “All he cares about is revenge.”

“What should we do, then?” Ingrid frowns and sits up straighter. “Wait here for the Imperial army to cross the border?” She pushes herself up unsteadily, staggering on a weak ankle towards Felix. She presses her finger into his shoulder and pushes him back. “What should we do, Felix? If you think it’s so easy to lead.”

“We wait for morning-”

“More waiting!” Ingrid cries out in frustration. “You’re just a coward-”

Felix scowls and lashes out at her, shoving her back towards the fire. 

“Stop!” Annette protests with a soft voice. “Please, stop fighting…”

“We should be fighting,” Ingrid wipes her mouth with her sleeve. “The Imperial army, not each other. Don’t any of you care? Don’t you care about what it means to be a Kingdom knight?”

Sylvain watches passively.

Felix folds his arms over his chest. “What does it mean to be a knight, then? To throw your life away, like everyone else?”

“You’re just a COWARD!” Ingrid shouts. “What would Glenn-”

Felix’s fist crashes into the side of her face, sending her stumbling back and sprawling out in the dirt. 

“Stop it!” Mercedes stands up, pleading. “Stop fighting!” 

Felix lashes a leg out at Ingrid, who catches his ankle and drags him into the dirt with a crack of joints and a clatter of armor. She can taste dirt and blood and her cheek aches, but her muscles react automatically, lashing out, grasping Felix’s shoulders and pulling him close enough for her to headbutt his face. He curses and hits her again.

Everything is shouting and the crackle of the campfire and Ingrid lays with her head in the dirt, staring up at the stars as they creep into the sky. Sylvain pulls Felix off her and she can distantly hear Mercedes’ soft voice.

“Please, everyone’s tired. It’s been so long since we’ve rested. We all need sleep.”

A gentle hand supports the back of Ingrid’s head. 

“Are you okay?” Annette asks quietly. 

Ingrid blinks up at her. “Y-yeah,” she says, pushing herself up on her elbows. She sniffs and wipes her face with her sleeve, leaving a smear of red on her arm. “Fucker.”

She can still hear Felix yelling, but it’s a muted sound as he’s dragged off by Sylvain. 

Annette wipes her face with a cold cloth before putting some sort of clear goop on her face. “Sorry,” she says quietly. “It’ll help the pain but doesn’t actually heal you.”

“It’s okay,” Ingrid pushes herself up and coughs. “Thank you, Annette.”

Mercedes was right. It had been far too long since any of them had gotten real sleep. Ingrid can’t even remember the last time she had a hot meal. They had been pushing themselves for weeks, moving up and down the Faerghus border to repel Imperial incursions where they occurred. There was no strategy, no finesse - nothing but bloodlust as Dimitri led them against the Empire, crashing against their armies with a ferocity Ingrid didn’t know he was capable of. And every time, the curse on his lips was for the same person - The Flame Emperor. 

No. 

Edelgard. 

Ingrid combs her pegasus’ mane with a wire brush. Even her mount is feeling the pressure of constant battle - her ribs poke through thin skin and her wings drape loosely, clumps of feathers sticking out at odd angles. She had been pierced by an arrow less than a week ago, and she still flies. Ingrid coos at her softly. 

“Good girl…” she strokes her mane. “ I know I'm pushing you too far. But the war isn't over yet. Please...lend me your strength for a little while longer.” 

“Hey.”

Ingrid looks up. “Oh. Hello, Ashe. I thought you’d be resting.”

Ashe stretches his arms over his head and rounds the pegasus’ backside. “I couldn’t sleep. I don’t think any of us can, with Dimitri gone.” 

“He’ll be back,” Ingrid says, staring off at the horizon. Even in the glow of starlight, she can see the crackle of magic. A fire broke out, somewhere. A steady, glowing red.

The battlefront seemed so distant just a few short days ago. It’s strange how fast a war can arrive at your doorstep. Now she can smell the crackle of grease and magic and ash on the wind. Flashes of colors, spells she once helped Annette study. The distant, heart-shattering roar of beasts. She wraps her arms around herself. 

“He’ll be back,” she says quietly, to herself. 

-

He comes back with the rising of the sun, a shambling mass of black armor, a lance scraping along the ground behind him. The Tempest King himself, his cloak smeared in dark blood, more a walking corpse than a man. Ingrid sits up and audibly gasps.

“Dimitri!” she rushes to his side, holding out her arm to help prop him up. 

He rejects the aid, shoving her back. His bangs hang in matted tangles over his eyes. 

“Dimitri, we were all so scared-” Ingrid says. Her voice seems to have no effect on him as he shambles past her. “Dimitri? Are you listening to me?” 

He arrives at their makeshift camp with a heavy clatter of armor as he sits. “Everyone up. We march for the border.”

“The border-” Ingrid follows behind, incredulous. “Dimitri, where have you been?” 

“Taking care of some rats,” he says bitterly. 

“Dimitri!” Annette calls out, relieved. She blearily stumbles away from the tent she and Mercedes share. At least they could rest some. Magic has a tendency to drain your strength in a way anxiously milling about can’t. “Oh, thank gods!” 

“The boar says we’re marching for the border,” Felix says, folding his arms over his chest. “Wake Mercedes. Is Ashe back yet?” 

“Just got back,” Sylvain pokes his head out. “We can be ready in half an hour.” 

“Good,” Dimitri growls.

“Good?” What?” Ingrid shakes her head. “Dimitri, what are you thinking? Look at you, you’re a mess!” 

“I don’t care.”

“‘Course he doesn’t,” Felix mutters, kneeling to begin packing his bedroll and traveling gear. “Wild animals never do.” 

“Shut up, Felix,” Ingrid brushes past him and kneels in front of Dimitri. “Look at me-” she touches his face, trying to tilt it upwards. 

He lets out a gruff noise and shoves her back.

“You need to rest,” she says quietly. “Besides, haven’t you seen what’s happening? I was scouting this morning, and...we shouldn’t be going to the front, we should be going to the border towns, to warn them, before it’s too late!” 

“We’re going to the front.”

“And you’ll let our people die?” Ingrid scowls at him. “Don’t you care?”

“I told you,” Felix scoffs. “All he cares about is revenge. Didn’t you want to take the fight to the Imperials yesterday?” He knocks mud off his boots. “You’re just like the boar.” 

“Things changed,” Ingrid says weakly. “Dimitri, are you sure...” She knows the answer before the words even come out of her mouth. She stares down at him, black armor splashed in dried crimson, lance at his side, hair tangled and cloak stained. 

“We need to warn the border towns,” she says. “You saw what the Emperor did to the Monastery, who knows what-”

“It’s not the priority,” Dimitri says, standing up. 

“Not the priority?!” Ingrid repeats, incredulous. “How can you say that?” She gestures vaguely into the air. “This all started when the Flame Emperor took innocent lives. And now you’ll let her do it again, for the sake of your revenge?” She presses her finger into his armor, the point of her finger scraping his breastplate. “How many people will you let die while you try to save the world all alone?” 

At his full height he can stare down at Ingrid, his eyes glowering and angry. She can barely see the features of his face, just hair and shadow and those burning eyes. 

“You’re so selfish!” Ingrid cries, pushing him. It’s like pressing her hand against a stone wall. “These are people, Dimitri!  _ Your _ people! How can you not care?” 

“They should know we’re at war,” he says simply. 

“How can you say that?!” Ingrid shouts. “This isn’t - this isn’t what Glenn died for!”

“Is he all you can think about?” Dimitri reaches out and snags Ingrid by the scruff of her neck. “Remember, he died because of  _ her! _ ” He shakes his head. “This is for him, too! For all of them…”

Ingrid pushes him off. “He died for nothing if you can’t even  _ pretend _ to care about this kingdom.” She brushes past him. “Do what you will. I’m going.” 

“That’s insubordination-” Dimitri starts to protest before stopping himself. He exhales heavily. “Go, then,” he waves a black-gauntleted hand in her direction. “We are going to fight.”

-

Ingrid kneels in front of her saddlebag and roots through it, yanking it roughly open and stuffing her gear inside. She runs a hand through her hair and rests on her knees. 

Bootsteps approach and she whips around, midway through sheathing a dagger. “Sylvain.”

“Hey…” Sylvain says, forcing a smile. “Ah...maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” 

“I don’t care,” Ingrid shoves the dagger into her bag and stands. 

“I just mean, in your state…” Sylvain gestures to Ingrid’s leg. 

She looks at him, her expression dark and unamused. “I’ll be riding.”

“And fighting, by the look of your gear.” 

“It’s just in case,” Ingrid slings the saddle bags over her pegasus and begins tightening the straps. A steel shield dangles from a leather strap. “I don’t plan on being caught by any Imperials.” 

“Yeah, well…” Sylvain rubs the back of his head. “How long has it been since you got some rest? Don’t want you falling out of the sky.” 

Ingrid buckles her bag and turns. Her hand clenches into a fist around Lúin’s shaft and plants it in the dirt to support her weight.

Sylvain reaches out to brush Ingrid’s matted bangs away. She tilts her head down, trying to hide the gauze over one eye. 

“Your eye is still healing, Ingrid. You can’t even walk without that damn lance-”

Ingrid clenches her teeth and swings Lúin up, the cracked blade fizzling with light and pointed at Sylvain’s chest. He throws his hands up and backs off.

“Hey, hey! Watch it!”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Okay, okay,” Sylvain shakes his head and slowly lowers his hands. “I get it. At least see a healer before you go. Please.”

Ingrid turns away from him and slides Lúin into the leather straps of her saddle. 


	2. Chapter 2

Ingrid presses a hand to her growling stomach. 

It’s not like the king’s personal guard had rations either, but she still regrets not asking around for supplies before leaving. She rubs her eyes, one still tender, and leans forward, resting against her pegasus’ thick neck. She wraps her arms around its neck and burrows her face in its mane, closing her eyes and feeling the heavy beat of wings. Each pulse of muscle and sinew sends a spasm of pain along her leg, a sharp stab in the joint of her knee.

She sighs and pushes herself up, grasping the reins again and shaking her exhaustion out. She could sleep, maybe - she had never tried it but had heard that some pegasus knights did, if they were close enough with their mount. She gathers the reins in one hand and uses the other to stroke her pegasus’ mane. 

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, more to herself than anything else. 

It’s clearer up in the sky. Colder, for sure, and her thick braid of hair flaps behind her. The wind is grasping fingers and hands, pulling her backwards, yanking her over the back of the saddle and down to the ground, far below. 

When she was first training, it was strange to see the land from the sky. No borders up there. No noble land, no countries, nothing but trees and meadows and mountains and towns. But now there is a border - the glowing line of red and orange, smoke pouring from it in thick black columns like a wound in the earth, a crack into hell itself. The front. 

She grits her teeth. 

The king’s foolish plan would doom them all. If he had his way, he would throw himself and his men headfirst into battle. Seeking not glory, not victory, but blood-soaked revenge. What king is he, then, if he doesn’t care for his people? 

Ingrid sighs and tightens her grip on the reins, guiding her mount to duck low below a bank of white clouds. From here, she can see a border town in the distance. Do they know the war has come to their doorstep? Is it quiet there? 

Ingrid presses her boots into the stirrups and urges her pegasus on faster, dropping from the sky and into a glide.

Somewhere along that distant horizon, Garreg Mach towers high above the mountains. A ruin, now, ever since the Imperial army had laid siege to it. A monument to the arrogance of thinking that Fódlan could ever have peace, a reminder of the cruelty of the Empire.

Her mount comes to a skidding halt in the forest, its hooves beating against the dirt and kicking up a spray of pine needles. She leaps from the saddle, her usual dismount made unsteady by her wounded leg. She puts too much weight on it and falls to her knees, cursing and wiping dirt from her greaves. 

“Hoy!” calls out a voice. Footsteps and more shouting. 

Ingrid reaches out to grasp her lance and push herself to unsteady feet. 

“That weapon…” comes a gasping voice. “Sir Galatea?” 

Ingrid wipes her mouth with her arm and breathes heavily. “You’re the town guard, y-yes?” 

“Yessir,” a boy stands at her side, tall and dressed in kingdom silver. He’s saluting her.

She winces and tries to push herself up to a taller height. “How old are you, sir?”

“Fourteen,” the boy replies.

“Four...what?” Ingrid blinks.

“All the men were called away, ma’am,” the boy hastily explains. 

Now that Ingrid can get a proper look at him, she can see his helmet is askew, too big for his small head. His leather cuirass, too, is ill-fitted. She inhales sharply. “Called away?”

“For the war.”

Ingrid nods and rests against her lance, glad the weathered shaft can support her full weight. “Are there other guards?” 

The boy nods and lifts the edge of his helmet to gaze at her. “Yessir.”

Ingrid nods. “You n...need to-” she cries out and collapses, her leg numb from the strain of the ride.

“I’ll get a healer!” the boy shouts, running off before Ingrid can protest. 

“No!” she cries out weakly. “You n-need to flee…”

Her voice falls on deaf ears.

“The empire…”

She closes her eyes.

-

There was a time when he wasn’t like this. 

A younger Ingrid, a more naive one perhaps, would have scoffed at the idea of Dimitri having any bloodlust at all. He had anger issues, maybe - but what man didn’t? 

Ingrid remembers how he would spend his time in Fhirdiad, often with children, always with a soft smile on his lips. Always so kind, so gentle even despite the strength of his resolve.

He wasn’t a knight, not yet, but he was something close. Even when they would play-fight with wooden swords and shields, she would lay on her back in the dirt, and he would offer her his hand, and smile, and ask if she was alright.

What good is strength if not tempered with kindness? The young prince had both in equal measure, in those days. Even as Felix smoldered with anger, even as Sylvain’s dalliances drew anger and irritation from others, Dimitri would smile. 

Was it Duscur that changed him? Was it growing up, seeing more of the world? When did the idealism fade? 

Ingrid would sit in the rafters of the Fhirdiad libraries long after they had been closed for the night, reading novels by candlelight. Stories of kind princes with gentle smiles, brave warriors and knights in silvered armor carrying the banner of peace and justice and righteousness. 

Ingrid would pray, sometimes. Pray that she could be like that, one day. She wasn’t a knight. She was skinned knees and scuffed knuckles and mud in her hair and crooked teeth. Always in the shadow of greater men. 

She was overjoyed when she got her acceptance letter to Garreg Mach. There had been some question of it - House Galatea was scarcely able to put food on their tables, but they scraped together enough money to afford entrance exams and tuition. And Ingrid beamed with pride as she brought her letter into the great hall, to show off to Dimitri and Felix and Sylvain and Uncle Rodrigue. 

All four of them were going together. Same year, same class. Ingrid remembers looking up at the light shifting behind the monastery towers as they approached. They all traveled together, of course, Sylvain sleeping in the back of the wagon while Dimitri and Rodrigue sat up front, chatting. 

It’s funny, what memories come back. 

-

Ingrid blinks and pushes herself up on her elbows. She winces and spits. No blood - that’s good. 

“Woah, easy there, girlie,” comes a chiding voice. An older woman stands over her, brushing her hands off on a leather apron. “Take it easy.” 

“Wh-?” Ingrid sits up. “Where am I?” 

“You’re in Edessa, on the edge of Gaspard territory,” the woman gently pushes Ingrid down and presses a cold cloth to her forehead. “You’ve got an awful fever, you know that?” She clicks her tongue. “Doesn’t that prince take care of his guards?”

“Prince…” Ingrid blinks. She bolts upright, almost bowling the woman over as she drags herself out of bed. “The Empire!” she looks around frantically. “How long have I been here?” 

“About a day,” the woman says, frowning. “Be careful on that leg of yours.” 

“It’s fine,” Ingrid says automatically. She looks around. “Where are my things?” 

“Your lady is stabled on the other side of town,” the woman sniffs. “Poor thing looked like it hasn’t eaten in days.” She prods Ingrid’s midsection. “You too.” 

“I need to-” Ingrid stumbles and rests against the doorframe. She’s in a clinic, it looks like - a scattered handful of cots, some wooden handcarts with vulneraries and bandages piled on top. A small infirmary for a small town, better suited for animal bites than war. “The Imperial army is coming.”

“Here?” the woman frowns.

Ingrid nods and stumbles out the door. 

The sunlight blinds her unbandaged eye and she lifts her hand to block the light. Stables. Where are the stables?

She winces and grasps a passing woman. “Stables-” she grunts. 

“What?” the woman looks at her, startled. “They’re on the other side of town,” the woman points.

Ingrid nods. “You should evacuate. The Empire is coming.”

“The Empire…?”

Ingrid stumbles through the streets in a daze, her footsteps uneven and her leg stiff with pain. People murmur and part as she passes, unsure what to think about the wounded knight babbling nonsense, staggering like a drunkard. She rests against a short stone building and breathes heavily before coughing up into the mud. 

Someone takes her arm. “Are you alright?”

Ingrid nods and pushes herself up.

The stables are on the edge of town, nestled between a narrow street and a strip of meadow that borders the town and keeps it apart from the forest. Somewhere in that forest is the border, the invisible line that separates them from the empire. A line that seems to be meaning less and less each day.

Her pegasus is eating - she offers a silent prayer of thanks for that - in one of the stables. Her wings are draped down over her back, drooping to the straw floor. Ingrid frowns.

Her saddlebags are missing. 

She brushes her pegasus’ mane with a shaky hand and coos to her softly. “Do you know where they took my gear?” There is no response. She sighs and pats the beast’s flank. 

“Hello?” Ingrid’s voice echoes in the empty stable. No other animals, no other people. Silence, save the soft munching of grain. 

Ingrid cranes her neck to look up into the hayloft. “Hello?” she calls again. “Anyone?” She frowns. “I’m looking for my things.”

Empty. 

How long had the healer said she was unconscious? A day? She lashes out her good leg in frustration, kicking down the ladder from the hayloft. She sighs, embarrassed at her outburst, and kneels to pick the ladder up. As she’s positioning it against the edge of the hayloft, she spies motion from the corner of her eye.

A shadow. 

She whips around, her weathered short-cape flapping as she does. “Who’s there?” 

The building is empty. Each individual stable has an open window, letting light flood inside in narrow yellow shafts. Ingrid frowns and kneels. Beneath her skirt, strapped to her leggings, is a small leather sheath. She draws a dagger and holds it gingerly. 

The motion again - a shadow passing through one of the beams of yellow light on the floor. Ingrid frowns and looks at the window.

In the corner, almost imperceptible - two black, beady eyes. 

Ingrid leaps into motion without a moment’s thought, crashing through the cell door and leaping through the window with a crack of wooden lattices. 

“YOU!” she roars, her voice hoarse. 

A figure sits hunched by the window, her saddlebag open at their feet. The figure looks up, beady eyes peering through a black, pointed mask. In his gloved hands, Ingrid’s lance, the cracked blade cold and still. 

There’s a beat of silence, uncertainty from both parties. 

Ingrid moves first, lashing out her leg instinctively - the hooded figure brings the shaft of the lance down on Ingrid’s shin, sending her sprawling to the ground in pain. 

She grits her teeth and spins, thrusting her knife at his feet - identity only somewhat confirmed as the man howls out in pain and drops her lance. He staggers backwards, fumbling in his black robes. 

A mage, then. 

“I’ll end this quickly!” Ingrid shouts hoarsely, a hollow threat from her position as a heap in the dirt. She picks up Lúin, the lance activating in her presence, and uses it like a crutch, pushing herself up and swinging it forward in a single, inelegant motion. 

The mage lifts his gloves hand and fire reflects in the shining black of his mask.

Ingrid barely manages to knock his hand away, sending a fireball careening into the roof of the stables. She follows up, whipping the butt of her lance at him with a crack of bone and a cry of pain. 

He curses and flicks his wrist. 

A mire of black and swirling violet forms in the dirt under Ingrid’s legs. Ribbons of light flash, burning her armor and dragging her down into the whirlpool of black. Her motions are sluggish, her legs dragged deeper into a blackened quicksand marred with purple light. 

The black magic seems thick and sticky on her greaves, like tar gluing her joints together. She picks up Lúin and swings it in a wide arc, tracing a ribbon of flame around her, dispelling the magic before she leaps forward and thrusts it at the mage. 

The glowing blade passes through his cloak with ease. Red sprays out, splashing along Lúin’s blade. The lance seems to react, the cracks in the stone blade seeming to absorb the blood, drinking it. 

Ingrid drops to her knees, gasping for breath.

The mage crumpled before her in a pool of reddening mud isn’t wearing Imperial colors. She reaches out cautiously, lifting a flap of heavy, black fabric. A motif is embossed on the edge of the mage’s cloak - a white eye, wreathed in intersecting lines. Ingrid frowns. 

“Sir Galatea!” cries out a voice. 

Ingrid looks up. Above her, the stable roof burns a bright orange. The boy she had met earlier runs towards her, holding his helmet out of his eyes. 

“Sir Galatea, are you alright?” 

Ingrid nods. “Y-yes,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. She prods the mage’s body with the butt of her lance. “The attack is starting. Tell everyone to get to safety.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Four towns in as many days.

A haze of feathers and wingbeats and cold wind and Ingrid’s own exhaustion settling into her bones like a thick malaise, a sluggishness that can’t be warded off by any amount of dried meat jerky or stamina drinks. She catches what sleep she can on the back of her pegasus, but even that sleep is irregular and restless. She dreams of blood and pools of black and tendrils of magic, and the beady black eyes staring out from leather masks.

The border of  Faerghus  is long and winding, snaking across forests and over mountaintops and through crooked river canyons, eventually out to the sea. 

Ingrid jolts awake just before dawn. The sun is rising, casting orange rays of light through the clouds. Before her, she can see the black maw of the ocean, infinite, inviting, impenetrable. The sea. She’s almost finished.

And then what? Returning to the front? 

_ Finding _ the front, rather. The villages she had warned had time enough to flee, but the war changed like the tides of the sea, waves of flame and steel crashing against the stony beach of  Faerghus mountains. 

Ingrid takes the reins and tightens her grip.

Her left hand is weak, swollen under the metal gauntlet, the motions of her fingers stiff and unresponsive. Her leg has gone numb sometime in the night, the dull ache replaced with an almost equally alarming nothingness. 

She winces and rubs her eye. She hasn’t had the courage to remove the bandages from her other, afraid that darkness will remain when she does.

Her armor is smeared in mud and tarry black residue and streaks of blood dried brown. 

She had cut her hair in the second village. Her thick braid got caught in the joint of her breastplate as she was landing and popped some of her vertebrae so painfully she had yanked out her knife and hacked it off on the spot. She remembers standing in the woods, the blonde braid heavy in her hands. Just staring at it. A piece of her. 

She had started growing her hair out just before joining the academy. Sylvain had assured her that no man would want a girl with such boyish hair. Her Father had agreed, reminding her that in school, she needed to be a model daughter. No more running around, no more playing in the mud with the other boys.

To hell with Sylvain. To hell with men. Ingrid had left the roughly hewn braid in the mud and gone on her way.

She stretches, trying to crack her stiff joints back into place. The hinges of her armor is rusted in some places, clogged with dried gunk in others. Something under her right breast stings, something she hasn’t looked at yet. Her body is a patchwork of aching bones and cracked skin and dried blood. She sniffles. The air smells like copper. No, that’s just her nose. 

She’s almost done. And then…

She bobs her head in a daze, her eyes gazing at the black maw of the sea. 

A memory filters to the surface of her hazy, numb mind. Gasping for breath, bubbles exploding from her mouth. Strong hands holding her under, laughter muted on the surface. Headbutting Felix and laughing at the blood streaming from his nose. Uncle Rodrigue chastising her even as he helped bandage up the knees she scraped on the rough sand below the surface of the water. When was that? Years ago? 

It’s a blur. Everything blurs together, smeared like the blood on her breastplate. She had leapt into the fishing pond at the school when Ashe dropped...something. What was it? She can’t remember. 

She jolts upright, almost falling out of her saddle as she comes back to wakefulness, startled from her reverie, gasping for breath. Her cheeks feel wet and she presses a cold metal finger against one before looking up. Rain? 

From the corner of her eye she sees a bright flash of fire. 

She tugs back on the reins and dives, dipping through the cloud layer and into the lower atmosphere. She’s still high above it all, but she can see the seaside border town, its wooden docks jutting out into the sea like uneven teeth. And on the edge of the horizon, visible in the orange glow of dawn - The Imperial army. 

She grits her teeth and pulls up again. The Imperials must have encountered some resistance - she can see smoke rising from a clearing in the woods, coils of black in the morning sky. 

Ingrid can be faster than them. She has to be. How thin-spread is the Imperial army, to cover the whole border at once? Or is Edelgard deliberately targeting the border towns?

In the back of her mind, a shadow of Dimitri cries out for vengeance. How horrid their enemy must be, to inspire such bloodlust. 

Ingrid reaches down and slides her lance out of its straps, holding it tightly as she swoops down along the enemy line, trying to survey what she can. 

Magic corps, siege engines, battalions of archers, wooden carts loaded with black-powder barrels marked in red paint. Everywhere steel and red banners waving.

She clenches her teeth and tightens her grip on  Lúin. She never noticed it before, but now at the edge of consciousness, she can feel every jerk, every motion. Is it the wind whipping the point of the lance to and fro, or something else? 

The pain returns, the stinging just below her ribcage.

She winces and gasps, releasing the reins to press a hand against her breastplate.

The sky opens in front of her, a red ring of glowing lines in the air. Before Ingrid can react, fire spews from the tear in the sky, and then jagged rock. 

Ingrid grasps her lance with both hands and swings with all her might. Energy courses through her arms, pouring into the lance, seemingly drawing from her own strength to make the stony blade grow brighter and wreathed in flame. 

It’s hot, and then dark. Ingrid’s vision flashes in and out. Clouds. Mountains. Trees, rushing up to meet her. Black. A burst of pain as wings open into a weak and unsteady glide. Black. Branches tearing at her, prodding her. Black. 

Her world is blood and darkness, even as she cracks an eye open, breaking a crust of dried blood. A weight is pressing down on her, heavy. A motionless ribcage. Singed wings, absent clumps of feathers, draped lifelessly over her. She chokes out a sob but all that comes out is blood, down her lips and chin, mixing with the pegasus blood pooling in the dirt below her. 

She can see boots in front of her, and a red cloak. A muffled voice she almost remembers. 

She cracks a smile, dripping more blood from her gums. “Em-Emperor.” If ever she was to die, let it be for the noblest of causes. To the worthiest of foes. She would spite Edelgard to her last breath, spitting venom in blood and fragments of bone. 

If the Emperor says anything back, it’s lost on Ingrid. 

As her vision fades, she can’t quiet a single dominating thought - the scent of barbecuing meat.


End file.
